


far away from the endless circles

by bibliomaniac



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Chronic Illness, Depression, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Trans Male Character, anyway point is i assure you nothing will occur while he's in that role, check beginning chapter notes for more details as always, contains elements of, eventually that is, internalized ableism, it is Connor ftr, it's really more like executive assistant but shrug, not a dynamic i want to mess with, note: hank starts out in something like a professional caregiver role
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-01 11:47:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16284041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliomaniac/pseuds/bibliomaniac
Summary: Connor Stern is working his ass off to build the foundations of a steady career when he gets derailed by a sudden illness that nobody understands and that refuses to go away. When it gets to the point that he can't leave the house anymore without help, his brother Niles finds someone to assist.That someone is Hank Anderson, professional caregiver and recreational asshole, who doesn't really seem interested in playing nice or making friends. Which is fine by Connor. He's got more important things to think about than Hank, even if he's always around.(Except for Hank ends up caring more than he planned, and Connor ends up thinking a lot more about Hank than he wanted, and they both need somebody to help them realize that there's a lot more to life than what they've been doing.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title is from [Shake Me (Awake) by The Dear Hunter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ok_5rpuxcT4)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws for this chapter include: lots of talk about work (and overwork, unhealthily so) at the beginning, some hints of emotionally abusive / manipulative rhetoric from connor's adoptive mother, brief references to disordered eating (due to aforementioned unhealthy work habits, but still), reference to food in conjunction with some nausea, some vestiges of internalized ableism, some disordered typing while connor is lightheaded that might be a bit difficult to read, some references to anxiety and depressive behavior

Connor doesn’t miss work. He has fifteen days of paid leave per year and more time he could take unpaid, and he never uses any of it. They’ll send him emails about it at some point, he’s sure, but for now he’s content to use all of his time and any overtime they’re willing to give him. He’s worked this long to get a spot in the industry, after all; now he needs to prove himself. No way sickness gets in the way of that, not for anything. Connor doesn’t miss work.

It’s his birthday, August 15th, 2038, and he’s turning 30. Connor accepts the few birthday wishes with a polite smile and a thank-you, and then he logs in to his terminal to review yesterday's tasks and start on the ones for today. CyberLife is one of the biggest corporations in the United States, definitely the biggest name in artificial intelligence, and he’s the head of a small team working on coding an artificial intelligence that aims to help the police with forensic work and other investigation. It’s not the biggest team, definitely not the highest priority on CyberLife’s docket, but he’s worked his ass off to make sure that it has a good reputation for getting things done on time and well. Even if he has to work to get it done himself. He usually does. 

The thing is, he knows how this industry works. His adoptive mother, Amanda Stern, used to work as an AI consultant for big companies like this, and she’d lectured him all growing up and through getting his undergrad, Master’s, Ph.D.—you need to make sure you’re not expendable. You need to make sure you’re so goddamn good at your job that they’d lose months if they replaced you. You need to be the _best._

So Connor is. He’s not the smartest person out there, but he works hard. He used to be the only person on this team. Now he’s the head of it. People know they can come to him for answers. They know that he’s the reason the team is running. They maybe don’t know about how late he works, or about the occasional unauthorized, unreported overtime he works. They don’t need to. He gets results, and that’s more important. 

“Connor,” one of his team members asks, “Want anything from the cafeteria? They have cupcakes today. We could probably find a candle somewhere, even.”

Noel doesn’t ask if he wants to go to the cafeteria with him. None of them do. He’s declined enough times that he thinks they get the point. Not that he thinks himself above them—he’s strict about accuracy, but he’d like to think he’s not condescending about it—but that he doesn’t really have time for lunch. He hadn’t even realized it was noon until the guy mentioned lunch.

“Oh,” he says, a bit distracted, eyes straying back to his computer terminal. “That’s all right, thank you. I appreciate the offer, though.”

Noel nods, waves, then leaves for the cafeteria. Connor isn’t really that hungry anyway. Maybe he’ll just get some chips from one of the nearby kitchens.

He doesn’t notice that Noel is back until a plate with a cupcake on it is slid onto his desk with a napkin. “Got one for you anyway,” he says. “You look like you could use it.”

Connor blinks at the cupcake, then the time—another hour already, God, he doesn’t know how he’s going to get this all finished by the end of the day—and forces a smile at Noel. “Thanks. Looks good.” 

He feels nauseous smelling it, but he makes himself take a bite anyway. He doesn’t want to be rude, and he can throw the rest away after Noel sits back down. He throws a thumbs up and another thank-you and then gets back to work.

It’s about 3PM when Connor realizes he’s been staring at the same line of text on one of these reports for fifteen minutes. He shakes his head and frowns at the screen, but the text blurs. It’s—it’s probably just the headache. He’s had one for a while, but that’s pretty normal. Maybe he should get up and get some medicine anyway. God, he feels sick.

He takes some of the headache medicine and resumes staring at the screen, but he watches a video about a recent development in the company and doesn’t remember anything after it’s finished. He exhales, measured and irritated. If he…if he takes the earlier shuttle home…right. If he does that. He can bring his laptop with him, keep working from there. Or work on the shuttle. Or. Sleep. Sleep and then work.

Sleep would be great.

He mumbles out a semi-coherent “See you all tomorrow,” stumbling slightly over his feet as he gets up, and walks to the shuttle bay in a daze. Right. He can keep working later. It’s fine.

The shuttle driver is still the same one from when he was going home on time, and he makes a brief, joking comment about how it’s been forever. Connor forces another smile and slumps into a seat near the front. 

He thinks he sleeps, because the next thing he knows is they’re at the stop where he parked his car, and he’s getting into the car and driving even though it feels like his head is full of cotton balls. He’s done this enough time it’s nearly on autopilot. (Too bad his car isn’t; it was cheaper to get one without, and he’s had this car for years, before pretty much every car was outfitted.) 

He gets home, somehow, and into his apartment, somehow, and into his bed.

He falls asleep, and when he next wakes up it’s 9PM, and he spares only the barest thought for how he should probably get some dinner before he’s sleeping again.

At midnight, he wakes up with enough energy to plug in his phone and brush his teeth and everything else, and he ends up bringing some crackers into his room to munch on, but it’s not long while he checks his emails before he’s feeling bad again, and he’s still in this muddled, foggy state of mind, so it makes sense to sleep again.

5AM. He always gets up early to make sure he has everything he needs for the day. He goes through his morning routine without thinking too hard about it, feeling normal, if a bit sleepy still. Medications, pick out clothes, teeth, shower. He turns it hot and relaxes under the stream of water, head slumping forward as he thinks.

He only missed maybe a half hour of work yesterday, ultimately, though it certainly wasn’t his most productive day ever. He can make up for it today. He just has to leave on the later shuttle, work some more unauthorized overtime— 

He puts up a hand against the shower wall, frowning at the sudden rush of dizziness and nausea. God. He had better not have the flu or something. He got vaccinated specifically so he wouldn’t get the flu, because if he got the flu he’d have to miss work. Connor doesn’t miss work. He finishes his shower, towels off, putting another hand up against the towel bar to fight off the urge to slump against the bathroom wall. Maybe…he should take his temperature. Maybe this is a fever.

He takes his temperature and despairs to find it completely normal.

Well, even if he feels like shit, he still has to go to work. He sits down on the bed to pull on his underwear and slacks, and the world rolls around him. 

He lies down on the bed, giving himself two seconds before he gets back up to zipper the slacks, pull on his undershirt.

He feels almost like crying, for a single, strange moment. He doesn’t know why he feels like this, and he doesn’t know, even worse, why he wants to stay home and just lay down the entire day. He’s dealt with shittier days. Maybe he’s feeling anxious about going in because of the missed work and it’s psychosomatic?

_Connor, I know you’re not really sick. You can’t keep doing this. You’re destroying your life._

He closes his eyes against the recollection of Amanda’s voice and presses his lips together, hands clenching in a fist. He has no reason to be anxious, and he hasn’t gotten nauseous from anxiety since—undergrad, for fuck’s sake, that’s a _lifetime_ ago. He’s not faking, he’s just sick, probably.

God, his stomach hurts.

He pulls out his phone to text Niles. Niles has the best work ethic of anybody he knows, and as much as Niles denies it and as much as Connor doesn’t like to think about it, he’s absolutely the smarter of them. ( _So much potential and you’re just throwing it all away, what, just to open up some fucking—nobody even reads paper books anymore, Niles!_ ) Anyway, he trusts Niles to give him an honest opinion about whether he’s just overreacting. 

His fingers are shaking for some reason, and his mind spools out words in a strange order, and what comes out is “niels isitsok ififi styyay hommetooget betterjforotidya” 

Niles’ response comes within a few minutes. They both get up early. “What the hell.”

Connor stares blearily at the screen, then attempts again, “*isiit *okto stayhome to get bebtber forotodya” 

“Connor, if you’re typing like that, you can stay home as long as you want.” 

“jsutdoay” Connor responds, feeling some of the knot of worry loosen in his chest and sighing as he lays back down. He has the presence of mind, at least, to set an alarm before the work day officially starts so that he can notify his supervisor.

He just won’t take a paid day. He doesn’t deserve it. And maybe when he wakes up he can work remotely. And it’ll be fine. It has to be fine, after all.

Which is what he keeps thinking, even through everything else that he tries not to reflect on in any detail. Just facts: he doesn’t get better. He gets worse, in fact, until he has to lay down most of the day if he doesn’t want to get lightheaded and dizzy and short of breath. He keeps missing work, except for one day where he does his best to go in and nearly passes out after three hours and has to call someone to drive him home. He goes into doctor after doctor; they test his liver, his heart, his brain, his blood, his ears even. None of them know what’s happening. Some of them ask if he’s considered it might be anxiety.

And after two months, two months longer than he probably deserved, he finally had to admit to his supervisor that without any hope of a diagnosis or treatment on the immediate horizon, he probably wouldn’t be getting back to work anytime soon. They ask him to resign officially, which he supposes is a kindness of a sort, not firing him. He gets Niles to drive him to his old office one more time, where he gasps for air in between awkward, off-kilter jokes, and gives everyone a shaky smile when they say they’ll miss him, where he turns in his access badge and work equipment.

He cries silently on the way back to his apartment as his head swims in cotton, and Niles is nice enough to not comment on it, at least.

But when they get back to his apartment, Niles reaches out a hand to stop him from getting out. 

“Connor,” he says. Niles always talks slowly, carefully, weighing every word before he says it, but Connor knows his expressions well enough to know that he’s also going to say something that he thinks requires precision. “I don’t know if you can live on your own anymore.”

Connor doesn’t even have the energy to shake his head. “Not livin’ with Amanda,” he says, his words slurred and odd like they tend to get when he’s been upright too long. “Not goin’ back.” 

“I’m not saying Amanda.” Niles tries to make eye contact, but Connor rests his head against the window, letting the cool of it sink into his cheek. He also tends to get abnormally hot when he’s been up. “I’m saying—” He exhales, sounding a bit frustrated as Connor’s eyes slide shut. “I’m saying that you can’t drive yourself to doctor’s appointments, and I can’t help you out all the time, as much as I wish I could. You can’t cook for yourself, you can’t clean, you can’t even walk up and down the stairs without me worrying you’ll fall and hit something. Amanda has agreed to help with your apartment payments and medical costs for the time being—”

“No,” Connor says, a small, drawn-out whine, but Niles ignores him. He doesn’t want to be beholden to Amanda. Fuck. If only he could think.

“—but somebody needs to be able to take care of you where you can’t. And I can’t do it, and I wouldn’t send you back to Amanda.”

“Mm,” Connor says, which is about all he can manage right now. Hopefully it communicates what he means well enough, which is something like a mixture of gratitude and irritation at being confronted over all this and a desire to get back upstairs so he can just lie down and feel normal again. 

“So I’ve set up an interview with a service that can give you some help. They’ll find a person who can assist you with errands and things like that. Just until you get better.” 

Connor opens one eye dolefully to stare at Niles. Words seem awfully far away in his sluggish brain, but it occurs to him Niles may have said all this now specifically so that he couldn't disagree, and he’s unsure whether he’s amused or proud or mad or nothing at all. 

“I’ll be meeting with them on Friday. Let me know if you have any specifications.” Niles finally lets go of Connor’s arm. “Be safe going up the stairs. Text me when you’re inside safely.”

Connor doesn’t respond, just gets out the car and starts walking in a jagged zigzag towards the apartment, bumping briefly into the wall before course-correcting. He gets up the stairs and leans against the door while he tries to find air and his keys, breathing harsh and deep before he stumbles into the apartment and towards his bed.

“imint thebvebd leiekeyiou todldmedtosay” he texts Niles, and then a half hour or so later when his mind has cleared and his heart has stopped racing, “Fuck you.”

“Look, I know this is a shitty situation,” Niles responds. “This is the best thing I could think of.” 

Connor buries his face in the pillow, letting his phone drop to the bed by his stomach. 

He doesn’t know how this all happened. He can remember how it started, and he can remember every step until it got here, but he still doesn’t know how it happened that he’s gone from establishing a place to start a career to unemployed and bedridden out of nowhere, with his younger brother set to ask a stranger to drive Connor to useless doctor appointments like he’s fucking ten again. He doesn’t know how he got here. He doesn’t _want_ to be here.

But he is, and so it’s with resignation that he picks up his phone again and texts, “No caring grandmother types. If I see even a hint of a rosy cheek or a kindly gray-haired matron I swear I will flip a fucking lid.” 

“Noted. I’ll decline Mrs. Doubtfire’s application right away.” 

Connor snorts, then hauls his laptop up onto his bed to continue watching some inane television series. Not because he wants to, but because he really doesn’t have that many options, and because maybe it’ll distract him from his shithole of a life for at least a little while.

Not really, he knows already. He knows he’ll still be all too aware that when he gets up for some freezer dinner later in the day that he’ll be on a timer before he starts having problems again, and that he left that bag with the CyberLife shirt his team had gotten him and the card right in his path so he’ll probably nearly trip over it and the shirt will spill out and he’ll see the logo and feel awful again, and that his life probably isn’t going to be the same for a while. He knows all that. 

But the alternative is staring at the ceiling for an hour before he falls asleep again, and he’s done enough of that by this point to also know that the television is more interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'd feel remiss if i didn't translate connor's loopy texting: 1. "niles is it ok if i stay home to get better for today", 2. "*is it *ok to stay home to get better for today", 3. "just today", 4. "i'm inside like you told me to say". apologies for the incoherency, but it's a semi-accurate depiction of what my typing looks like when i've been upright too long.
> 
> ok all of my fic is self-indulgent but this one especially so. connor is basically dealing with here what i've been dealing with for the past 5 months, namely postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome (POTS), which led to me having to leave work and move in back home. anyway i'm just unabashedly transplanting a lot of that here, except for with 100% more hank and like at least 64% more angst. i just got the idea to write it this morning and my impulse control is bad, so like it's an awful decision for me to be writing three fics at once (the third one isn't published yet, it's for a thing) but the majority of my decisions are awful so i'm just staying true to character i figure


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws for this chapter: briefly implied past alcohol use, awkward situations, unreality/dissociation, discussion of some medical symptoms and being ran around by the medical system, including brief blood mention and other medical tests; some anxiety over asking for help, mention of an emotionally abusive/manipulative relationship, brief graphic wording of hitting head, brief mention of some internalized ableism, mention of past suicidal ideation/planning, mention of some disordered eating due to illness, some depressive illness and thoughts about being trapped

The man who shows up the following Wednesday is not a grandmother type, nor does Connor ever see himself calling him ‘kindly’. He does have somewhat rosy cheeks, but Connor thinks that might be from the remnants of a hangover. The man’s hair is more silver than a straight gray.

Connor has the presence of mind to think, bemusedly, _Well, I guess that’s sort of all right,_ before the man opens his mouth.

“You gonna let me in or are you just gonna stare all day? Because it’s your money, but it is starting to get colder and all, and I charge extra for frostbite.”

Connor blinks from his place holding onto the door for stability, and reverts in his utter confusion to Business Mode. “Oh, of course. I do apologize, I’m a little,” and he waves his free hand ineffectually in the air before it falls uselessly to his side. “You can come in.” 

The man, who has not actually introduced himself—Connor is running off Niles’ ‘The person the company chose is coming at 9. Be nice’ text. It is technically 9:04AM, but he can’t imagine anybody else dropping by and being so audacious—snorts and walks his way in the slightly wider door opening that Connor creates by stepping back and trapping himself between the door and the wall. Connor closes and locks the door once he’s through, still feeling wrong-footed. 

“You live here alone, they said?” the man says, looking around with the detached interest one might usually reserve for the home of a family friend you don’t really like, and Connor blinks one last time before sitting down on the couch.

“I—yes. I do. It’s a one-bedroom apartment.”

“Uh-huh.” He doesn’t sit down on the couch next to Connor, just walks into the kitchen and looks around at it speculatively, opening a few of the cupboards near the oven, then the fridge. Connor is too gobsmacked to say anything about it. “Guessing you haven’t been to the grocery store in a while.”

“I—not for a month at least, but—delivery—”

“Is this a regular thing or are you going to need grocery runs?” 

Connor wonders, briefly, if he is having some kind of very odd dream. Probably not. His dreams aren’t generally very vivid. “I—either?” 

The man finally looks back at him at that, an eyebrow raising in slow motion. “Well, let me know when you decide.” He walks over to the couch, sitting down and gazing at Connor’s posture, which is stiff and straight on the edge of his seat like Connor’s choir teacher always taught him in middle school, like he always reverts to when he’s nervous. “All right. They gave me the basic rundown of what’s going on, but can you tell me what you need help with in your own words?” 

Connor stares, swallows, shakes his head as if it will clear it. (It does not. It makes him a bit dizzy, though.) “Right. Um. Basically when I’m lying down I’m mostly all right. When I’m upright for any length of time I start getting lightheaded, and if I do any kind of physical activity I start having difficulty breathing. If I’m upright too long I start getting dizzy and confused, and my speech gets slurred and I start stuttering and I get heart palpitations and my balance is impacted. So, uh—I’m lying down most of the day to—avoid that happening, which limits the number of things I can do for myself. Cooking usually takes too long, and I’ve been given a blanket ban on driving. I’ve been going to various doctor appointments while they try to figure out what’s going on, but I can’t take myself to them. Or get medications or. Anything that involves leaving the house on my own, honestly.”

He wrings his hands at the man’s thoughtful expression, adding, “Sometimes I can get the mail myself?”

The man chuckles, ripped out of him like he wasn’t quite expecting it. “Christ. Okay. So—errands like pharmacy and doctor appointments, cooking, maybe cleaning a bit, _maybe_ groceries.” Connor can’t tell whether his tone is teasing or mocking, but his mind latches on the ‘cleaning’ part.

“Oh! I mean. I couldn’t ask you to—I’ve been using a lot of. Paper plates.”

The man’s eyebrows raise again, both this time. “You couldn’t ask me to do my job?” 

God, Connor feels like an idiot, but he hates asking people for help. “Well, it just seems impolite.”

“Uh-huh.” His tone has slipped from maybe-teasing-maybe-mocking to yeah-you- _are_ -an-idiot. “So cleaning. Anything else you can think of?”

“I. No?” 

“Right. Okay. So here’s the thing.” The man’s fingers tap against his thigh. “Guy who came in for the matching interview, he said that the woman who’s financing this is paying for a full-day gig.” 

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Of course she is. She’d probably even say she’s doing it because she _cares._ Which—maybe. Maybe, in her own way.

Or maybe she just doesn’t want to risk looking bad because her poor invalid son cracked his skull open on the stairs just because she wouldn’t shell out.

“Ostensibly because she wants someone oncall and doesn’t want you to have to wait for help.” 

Oh, God, he definitely thinks he’s some upstart rich kid. Connor’s heart sinks even as he feels it start to beat faster. He’s probably been up too long. 

“So—that’s her prerogative. If she wants to blow her money on keeping me around even when there’s not shit to do—” He shrugs, relaxing against the couch in the way Connor still can’t manage even though it’s his couch. “Yeah. Her business. But. You don’t have to act like some scared puppy just because you’re giving me something to do. Like I said, it’s my job. Wouldn’t mind feeling like I’m earning it sometimes.”

“Oh,” Connor says, with a mind that’s both starting to slow down and really never had an idea what the fuck was going on in the first place. “Okay. Well, I have a television. So.” 

The man blinks at him three times in a slow, measured, slightly condescending look. “Gotcha.”

“So you can watch it,” Connor says, in case that’s causing confusion.

“Yup,” the man says, voice clearly indicating that there was no confusion and the clarification was unnecessary and possibly unwelcome. 

“All right.” Connor stands up abruptly, regretting it immediately when his lungs protest. He starts gasping for air, breathing brittle when he takes breaths that are too large and still don’t satisfy, lungs hurting at the harsh treatment. He also feels his brain go sideways as he stumbles, and his legs bump into the coffee table when his arms pinwheel to try to regain balance.

The man’s hand shoots out to Connor’s side to steady him, expression gone from condescending to somewhat horrified. “Christ, kid, are you all right?” 

“Awesome,” Connor grits out, trying not to think about the sensation of a warm hand on his hip for all it’s right _there,_ because that’s not at all something he needs to reflect on. He lurches out of reach. “I just—just—just need to lie down. Uh. You have a remote. Yell if you need me.” 

“If I need you,” the man parrots, hand still stuck out in the air for a moment before it slowly falls back down. He’s frowning now. “Okay, sure.”

Connor walks back to his door in the diagonal, stopping once he’s up against it and turning slowly. “What’s your name, by the way? So I—” Fuck, he hates how his mind goes all molasses. “I. So I. Can—stop saying the man.” 

“Oh, fuck, sorry,” the man says, looking actually kind of contrite for the first time, which in Connor’s struggling mind feels right because he thinks the guy might be being kind of a dick. “I’m Hank. Hank Anderson.”

“Okie doke,” Connor says before he can think too hard about his word choice, and he goes into his room and lies down, waiting for his head to clear and heart to stop racing before cursing himself for saying fucking _okie doke._  

God. He’s every inch the idiot this guy clearly thinks he is.

His hip still burns, and he scowls, rubbing harshly at it until it feels like stinging. He doesn’t really like being touched that much, even if—even if nothing. He just doesn’t like it usually.

He pulls up his computer to start watching videos of people criticizing films he hasn’t seen, and hears outside the sound of the vacuum starting up. Not the television. He closes his eyes, then goes back to the video.

It’s a few hours before there’s a knock on his door. “You don’t have to get up,” Hank calls out as Connor is doing just that, sitting up in bed. “Just wanted to ask something real quick.”

Connor stays sitting up; Hank opens his door and he tries not to feel self-conscious about the state of his room. It’s not even just that it’s messy, even though it is. It’s also the posters everywhere of various detective novels and films he enjoys but that people tend to think are weird.

Hank doesn’t even look around, though, just asks, “Do you have any doctor appointments already scheduled that I can get on my calendar?” He holds up his phone as if he needs the extra prop for explanation. “Just so I can be prepared.”

“Oh, yes.” Connor picks up his phone from the nightstand, navigating to the calendar app and looking it over, rubbing his chin. “This Friday I have an echocardiogram at 9AM. It’s at—” 

“The big pavilion, yeah?” Hank averts his eyes when Connor looks at him, questioning. “They’re the only ones close with a dedicated cardiology clinic.”

“Yes,” Connor says slowly, then moves on. “Um, the week after on Tuesday is a followup appointment with oncology at 11AM.” He huffs irritably, moving his knees up to his chest. “Not that they’ll tell me anything. My head MRI was normal and my blood work is consistently clean, like I _told_ them, but whatever.”

Hank scratches at his beard, still looking away, then says, “You’ve run most the rounds already, I’m guessing?”

“Yeah. Three primary care providers, one oncologist, one cardiologist, one neurologist, one hepatologist, one ENT. I’ve had a head CT and MRI, a chest x-ray, an EKG, a hearing test, an abdominal ultrasound and CT,  _so_ much blood work—”

“Yeah, I know the deal. They don’t got any ideas yet?”

“No. My most recent PCP thought it might be because of these liver lesions, but.” Connor shrugs, trying not to sound as irritated as he always gets by this. “They’re benign. And now she just sort of doesn’t know what to do, so I’ve been having to do my own research and ask for referrals myself.”

“Hm.” Hank is still scratching at his beard. “You know, I know a pretty good doctor at the pavilion. Family medicine, but—he knows his shit, and he, uh—he’s good about going after things when other folks might not.” 

Connor pauses. “Yeah?” There’s something underneath that, Connor senses, something Hank isn’t mentioning. But it’s not like he has any reason to. They’re not friends.

“Yeah. Dr. Manfred, his name is. Carl.” Connor is already looking him up; he’s in the same system so he could probably make an appointment with too much fuss. His ratings are all right, not that the rating systems on the hospital websites aren’t shady as hell.

“Huh.” He chews on his lip. “Well, it can’t hurt, I’m sure. Thanks.”

“No problem,” Hank says, taking a step back through the doorway. Distancing himself. “Any other appointments on the horizon?”

“Not really. They slowed down after the whole thing where my liver didn’t pan out.”

He had to drive into Detroit proper for the hepatology appointment, the one he had been pinning all his hopes on. He took a taxi there—Niles was busy—and waited for twenty minutes to see the doctor, who took a look at his chart for five minutes and told him that his liver was fine based off his blood work, and had he considered seeing a neurologist? The appointment took less than ten minutes. 

He left the office feeling numb and called another taxi, but after fifteen minutes in the car it flashed red and said it needed emergency maintenance and he could get another ride for free from another car. It dropped him off at some tiny liquor shop, where he sobbed into his knees on the curb for a while until the next car came. He spent the whole car ride home idly looking up the efficacy rates of various suicide methods, then made another appointment with his primary doctor, who said she didn’t know where else to take this.

Hank doesn’t know any of that, and he doesn’t need to.

If Hank notices anything dark in his face, he doesn’t mention it. “Cool. Well. That’s all I had to ask then.” 

Connor nods. “I’ll keep you updated. Thank you.”

“Yeah. Uh—actually. If I just head to the grocery store today, what kind of food are you into?”

He hasn’t had an appetite for months. “I can make a list and you can see what overlaps with what you like?” 

Hank’s face goes a bit sour. “I mean, I’m not eating here.”

They stare at each other until Connor is able to manage, “Oh.” 

“Nothing personal, just—” 

“Yeah, no, of course.” He sighs, running his hands through his hair and sliding back down onto his pillows. “I’ll make a list and just—you found the wifi note I left on the counter, right? Should be able to drop it to you over the network.”

“Right.” Hank takes another step back out the door. “Need anything else?”

Connor doesn’t really want to _need_ anything from Hank right now or ever. “Nope. Thank you again.”

Hank takes one more step backwards, closes the door. Connor looks out his window, where the day is turning gray. It might rain later. 

Some days, Connor’s only contact with the outside is this window, and he stares at it until he wonders if it’s just a screen like his computer or the television, and he’s not living in the real world anymore. It feels like that sometimes—like he’s in some kind of terrible dream. But his dreams aren’t this vivid, and he always wakes up from them eventually. 

He looks back to his computer on the bed and clicks on some recommended video about a guy making a vase, lying back down fully. He can call this doctor later, when he feels like talking to someone again.

Hank had looked like he was escaping, Connor thinks, watching the man in the video pour resin into a plastic container. Like he didn’t want to be there anymore and he needed to get out. 

Connor wishes it were that easy for him—that he could back out his own door, leave his room, leave this shitty life, and go outside to feel the rainstorm build in the air. But he can’t.

He’ll just have to watch it happen from inside, like always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the story about the taxi thing is sort of true--as with connor, i'd been going to appointments for two months looking for stuff to do with these liver lesions that ended up being benign, and i finally went to a hepatologist (liver doctor) after doing a bunch of tests to that end. i had to drive down pretty far to get to this person and i'm not allowed to drive rn so i took an uber there, and after the hepatologist took ten minutes to tell me 'yeah it's not your liver' i called another uber back, and not too long in this guy was like 'i'm so sorry i don't think i can get back down here in time to pick up my daughter from daycare, can i drop you off and you can call another ride?' and like my day was already so shitty so i just started crying and this dude was like 'OH MY GOD NO IT'S FINE I CAN DRIVE YOU' and im like 'NO IT'S NOT YOU JUST DROP ME OFF' and i like walked out to this bench near a liquor store still sobbing and he got out after me still like 'SERIOUSLY ARE YOU OK' and im like 'PLEASE JUST LEAVE' and it was all very dramatic and in retrospect kind of hilarious. dear mr. uber man, i am sorry i have no self-control. i hope you did not worry too much that day. (i got home fine it's all right)
> 
> for those of you who may for whatever reason need a quick rundown of the vaguely medical shit in this chapter since i used a lot of acronyms and shit (and i am no expert, but i've had all these procedures and i've been in the medical system a Long-Ass Time): an echocardiogram is a heart imaging test, basically; cardiology is the area of medicine that involves the heart; MRI is magnetic resonance imaging and it's the one where you're in a noisy tube for a long time; oncology is cancer doctor, neurology is head doctor, hepatology is liver doctor (and gall bladder and pancreas), ENT is ear nose and throat doctor; CT is another kind of imaging scan (it's like a lot of xrays i guess and involves a much less noisy tube and doesn't take as long), EKG is an electrocardiogram and looks at the heart. 
> 
> hank is being kind of a dick but he'll get over it eventually (and there will be some explanation as to why, it's not entirely due to his inability to play nice with others). also probably i shouldve worked on one of my other two fics, im trying to alternate, but today's my 5 month anniversary of getting sick so im commemorating


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws for this chapter: awkward situations and some silent treatment from hank, mentions of isolation and loneliness, hank is kind of rude and also pushes a bit about some things that connor is uncomfortable about, medical procedures/hospitals (outpatient), some concerns about transphobia though they don't turn out, mention of depressive thinking and symptoms, brief reference to ideation of death and suicide, some mixed-up speech due to confusion that might be a bit difficult to read

It would be inaccurate to claim that Connor adjusts to Hank's presence well or even at all. He shrieks the following day when he lets Hank in but forgets a few hours later that he was there; he startles whenever Hank knocks or makes any kind of noise at all. They interact rarely, and when they do, their conversation is stilted and tense.

This doesn't really make Connor ecstatic about Hank having to help him down the stairs the day after on Friday, taking his arm as impersonally as he can manage, and it doesn't really make him ecstatic about Hank having to drive him to the appointment either. Hank's car is also non-automated, though a lot older than Connor's was (or is, really, it's just been collecting dust in his garage). Connor makes a comment about that, hoping it might spark some kind of friendly interaction or even a non-friendly one, but Hank just kind of grunts in acknowledgement and backs out of the parking space without further commentary. 

Right. Okay. Yeah, Connor can...manage that. His expectations, he means. Just because Hank is the first person he's interacted with outside of family and doctors for two months, really, that's—really just normal. Sure doesn't mean they have to be friends, or anything. Doesn't even mean they have to talk at all. 

He doesn't say anything when Hank puts on some heavy metal, even when it's loud enough that it makes his head pound. He just closes his eyes and leans back against the seat and lets the beat thrum in his body. 

Hank tries to open the door for him when they park, but when he's halfway back around the car, Connor is already opening the door himself and getting out, giving Hank an unimpressed look that probably isn't too weighty in light of its combination with his breathing hitching and the way he stumbles forward and holds onto the door for support.

Hank just gives him an even more unimpressed look and starts walking towards the building.

Connor follows after him, wondering idly if this is just how professional caretakers act, or if it's just Hank, or if it's just Hank when he's pissed off about the situation. He wonders what he might have done to piss him off when the total number of words they've exchanged could probably fit on the back of a cereal box. Not even, like, one of those fiber bran cereals that talk about how healthy they are. Like Captain Crunch or something, where most of the box is pictures.

Whatever. It's not like he wants someone fawning over him anyway, and if Hank wants to be pissy, that's his prerogative. 

Hank does hold the building's door open for him, smirking a bit, and Connor's lip curls before he forces a smile and walks in, then speed walks to the elevator so that he can hold that for Hank. 

Which is dumb because then he has to breathe harder because he exerted himself, and Hank looks kind of like he's trying not to laugh, but his _point_ is that he doesn't _need_  someone treating him like some delicate maiden from the fucking 1800's just because he's got...whatever. 

It is also Connor's prerogative, he figures, if _he_ wants to be pissy.

He heads up to the second floor to the cardiology department's checkin desk, where he provides his information with the tired ease of someone who's done this often enough they no longer have to think about it. They promise to call him when the technician is ready, and he looks back to the seating area. Hank is already sitting down, patting the chair next to him with exaggerated pep. 

Connor sinks down into the chair, sighing as he adjusts his posture. Straight back, tip of the chair.

There's a few moments of silence, until, "Christ, kid, do you ever relax?"

Connor glances over at Hank. "I was taught to sit like this."

"By who, some British finishing school?"

Connor thinks it might be a joke, but he bristles anyway. "By Amanda." 

Hank squints, thinking. "Wait, your mom?"

Connor stiffens minutely, looking away. "Adoptive mother." 

"Uh-huh," Hank says slowly. "Right." Connor hopes he'll drop the subject, but a minute later, he says, "She's, like, some bigwig in AI, yeah?" 

Connor presses his lips together and his fingers into his thigh. "She's done a lot of work in the field, yes."

"File said that the guy in the interview—your brother—he said you followed right in her footsteps, huh."

Niles never would have said that, even if he ever thought it. Not out loud. Connor digs his fingers even harder into his leg.

"Said you had some great job at CyberLife before you got sick." Connor thinks that might be derision in his tone, but he'd prefer to concentrate less on that and more on trying to not freak out about being compared to his mom. 

"I did work there," he says, as cold as he can manage, and Hank finally sighs and adjusts himself in the seat.

"Must be nice," he mutters under his breath, and Connor clenches his teeth, standing up too fast again when they call his name. Hank trails after him. He doesn't know how to feel about Hank following him into the appointments proper, but Niles had pointed out that sometimes by the time the doctor gets to him he already can't talk properly and needs help. 

They get him into one of the rooms, and the nurse does all the standard stuff—weight, blood pressure and heart rate, temperature, asking why he's here—and Connor answers as best as he can, starting to regret the physical exertion from trying to stay ahead of Hank. He's already starting to get a bit light-headed. At least the procedure itself will be lying down. 

The nurse hands him a gown and tells him to change before leaving. He's light-headed, but not enough to not realize the conflict here. He's not sure what conventional etiquette might dictate, but he really doesn't want Hank to see that he wears a binder. Maybe he'll find out eventually, but. Not now. 

Connor is staring down at the gown thoughtfully, his problem-solving skills not working well enough at this point to figure out any kind of solution, but Hank ends up solving it for him.

"I'll wait outside while you get changed. Just knock when you're done."

"Mm," Connor agrees, waiting for the door to close, then stripping off his shirt and, with a wince, his binder. The gown ties in front, and not particularly well, but it's baggy enough that he thinks it won't be too bad. He hopes, anyway, but still shuffles over to the door with his arms crossed over his chest.

Hank walks back in while Connor is shuffling back to the bed and lying down with his front facing towards the wall. They don't speak, and they continue not speaking until the echo tech comes in, explaining the procedure and stacking up towels around Connor and then getting out the transducer, keeping up cheery conversation the entire time.

"—and sometimes it feels like I'm too busy to even pay attention to my dog, which is a crying shame—" 

Connor perks up. "You have a dog? What kind? I love dogs."

"Oh, yeah? She's a chocolate lab. Her name is Pebbles, you know, like Cocoa Pebbles, the cereal? My son named her."

"That's adorable," Connor says, smiling at the thought. "I always wanted a dog, but—" He falls silent. "I didn't have the time, you know. I only got back home late, and that didn't seem fair." 

"Breathe in and hold it," the tech (Ethan, he'd introduced himself) instructs, holding the wand up against Connor's ribs hard enough that it hurts, not that he'll say anything. "Yeah, I feel that. When I was in training, I felt really bad about having to leave everyone at home." 

"Yeah," Connor murmurs, fist clenching at his side.  

"Things are better now, though," Ethan says. "I don't have a ton of free time, but I try to spend it well, you know? The other month we went to these botanical gardens and they had this butterfly exhibit—" He continues chattering, Connor adding to the conversation where he can, but he's still thinking about what Ethan said. 'Things are better now'.

Even after he had gotten out of school, Connor doesn't think he could ever have said the same and meant it. He'd mostly just reconciled himself to life not being very enjoyable as a general rule. Keep living because it'll fuck everybody else up if you don't, then someday you die and don't have to deal anymore. 

The test finishes, and Ethan hands him another stack of towels to clean off the ultrasound gel. "All right, you can clean up and get changed, and when you're done you two can just leave the same way you came in. Test results should be up in the next few days on the patient portal."

"All right, thank you," Connor says, waving as he leaves. Hank stays a couple seconds after him, then gives a tight smile and walks out the door. Connor changes back into his binder and his clothes, squirming against the uncomfortable sensation of residual gel. It never quite feels like it's off even if you wipe at everything.

He doesn't bother knocking at the door, just leaves the room and lets Hank catch up with him. They return to their normal silence, and Connor continues to tell himself he doesn't mind.

It's not until they're maybe five minutes away from his apartment, when Connor's been up long enough in total that he knows if he says anything it'll come out all jumbled, that Hank says, "So, you like dogs?"

"Yup," Connor says. 

"I have a dog. He's, uh, a St. Bernard. Sumo."

Connor's mind struggles to attach the statements together. Ah. Sumo is the dog that Hank has who is a St. Bernard specieswise. Right. "Good," Connor says, for lack of a more intelligent response. 

"Yeah, he's great. Old, I mean, but. You know what they say about dogs and their owners."

"That they both—both—b—" Connor huffs, closing his eyes irritably at how the words don't come out. "Both, um, um. Both go up?" He considers that statement and finds it incomplete. "Like years." 

Hank looks over at him; Connor can see it from his periphery, but he refuses to look at him properly because he doesn't want to see if there's any pity there. His breathing isn't too bad, yet, but it's a bit labored, enough that you can hear it rasping if you listen close.

"I was thinking more like that dogs grow to look like their owners, but yeah, I guess we all are subject to linear time," Hank says, voice light in a way that indicates 'joke' again, except for Connor can't get his mind to recognize what's funny there, or about any of this. 

"Why're you talkin'," he says, which he thinks is a fair question, if badly put. 

He still isn't looking at Hank, but he can see how he sort of jerks away anyway. "Sorry for trying to make conversation, I guess," he grumbles, and Connor wrinkles his nose. 

"No. To me. You keep—not. Not, um. Not." He waves his hand, wishing it would communicate his question properly and knowing it won't. This is always so frustrating. "Not...talking. Even if I try to. Do it. Talking."

"Uh," Hank says awkwardly, but Connor isn't done. Even if maybe he should be, since his mind isn't really processing at top speed, and his words are coming out slurred and mashed together. 

"An', like, I know we're not, uh, not like...not, um, friends or, or. And all of that. So that's all fine and all and. And. A-and, uh, um."

"Connor," Hank says, voice starting to sound distinctly uncomfortable. 

"But like, it's also, um, how that I don't...talk to people, ever, now."

Hank's air leaves him all in one punched-out exhale. Connor's woolen brain doggedly continues. "Because I can't leave. So just, I just talk to Niles, on the—on the text, um—the—the, um, phone talking. An'—an' sometimes Amanda calls and I don't answer 'cause, 'cause she _sucks_  and I _hate_  her an' you kept askin' and asking and, and, um—"

"Connor," Hank says, a bit desperate now, like he's wishing Connor will stop, except for Connor isn't really here right now, just whatever is left of his brain. And besides, he doesn't want to stop, because Hank keeps being a dick and probably deserves to know it.

"But you don't want to talk ever and that's all, all _fine_  and everything and. And it's just all fine the way like that that it is. But mostly I'm just—asking. Curious. I'm, uh, curiousing why it is that you just, like." 

"Connor, we're here." 

"I just wanna know why you hate me," Connor says, and Hank just deflates like he was a balloon and somebody popped him. 

Connor finally notices that they're parked and opens the door, but before he gets out, he pauses and looks at Hank, who doesn't look like he has any pity so much as that Connor maybe socked him in the face. Emotionally.

"So that's the talk, if you wanted it," Connor says frankly. "About that. And also, also, just for the reference in—in future times. No doors. I'm not a maid with the carriage and those things." 

He gets out of the car and promptly walks into a wooden pillar.

" _Christ_ , kid," Hank says, startled loud.

"Not a _kid_ ," Connor says mulishly, walking at a sharp angle towards the opening of the complex. "I have at _least_  thirty years. Which. You have a fuckin'—file. So read those years on the, on them. The file." 

"Uh-huh," Hank says, tired-sounding, and locking the car so that he can take Connor's arm to lead him towards the stairs properly. 

"And then shove the file years up your ass," he adds to have the last word, triumphing at how it makes Hank stumble for just a second. And then, for extra oomph, "Dick."

"Yup," Hank says, pulling Connor towards the stairs and getting them both up and in the apartment. The last thing Connor sees before he goes back in his room to lie down and regenerate some of his thinking powers is Hank sagging on the couch, boneless, and scrubbing his hand over his face.

He thinks, if he were thinking, maybe seeing that might've made him feel bad. But he's not. Thinking, that is. So he just lies down instead and doesn't feel shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're wondering why connor was barely talking with niles and here is talking a lot but just jumbled up, it's just based on how long he was upright in both those situations! he was up for longer the previous scene with niles, and without a break to lie down, so.
> 
> i was considering pretty carefully about whether to put in connor being a trans man, because i don't want to tread too deep into territory that's not mine to tread, but i decided to go with it in the end. it'll play into some other elements here and there, but this isn't going to be a narrative specifically about him being trans. i am nonbinary so any elements there will draw principally from my own experiences with that, but do tell me if there are any points that end up not treating everything respectfully and i'll do my best to revise at that point!
> 
> hank and connor need to have a Conversation, optimally not while connor is loopy as fuck and his syntax is all hashtag wack, but loopy!connor did kickstart it anyway so thanks bud


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws for this chapter: discussion of doctors and medical procedures, talk about childhood cancer and death, some parental emotional abuse and manipulation (especially in the area of expecting constant perfect schoolwork and constant work thereafter), parental transphobia, mention of unhealthy work habits and disordered eating and sleep

It takes maybe a half hour before Connor is thinking straight enough to think, _aw, fuck, fuck, I fucked up._

Not because he said anything _untrue_ , necessarily, though he sure could've put it nicer. Just because he shouldn't have said anything at all. They have a professional relationship. 'Why do you hate me' is not really a professional question. Nor is 'shove my file up your ass' a professional sentiment. All in all, it was just—well.  

Unprofessional.

_Fuck,_ he thinks again when a reluctant knock sounds at the door.

"I'm coming in and if I see you sitting up I'm seriously going to kick your ass," Hank says behind the door, which is, in fairness, also very fucking unprofessional. "Don't want a repeat of outside."

Connor flushes and crosses his arms, then self-consciously adjusts his blanket so it's covering the part where his shirt has ridden up at the hip. Then crosses his arms again. This entire process may have been more effective if he hadn't done it with Hank watching, now that the door is open, but also probably kind of not. 

Hank gazes at him, lips pressed together and eyebrows furrowed, then says, "Okay. So, I probably owe you some kinda apology." 

Connor blinks. "What? I was rude to _you_."

Hank barks out a laugh, but not really one that sounds like he thinks anything is funny. "Not before I was a dick first, ki—" He hesitates, frowning, then amends, "...Dude."

Connor's lips turn up a bit at the corners at the bad save, but he appreciates the effort, at least.

"Anyway. I'm sorry about it. I should, uh—think a bit harder about how I come across, I guess." He gives a sharp nod, pauses, and shrugs before turning around.

"Wait," Connor calls out, propping himself up on his elbows to get a better view of Hank. "I mean—" He huffs, chewing at his lip. "Did I do something? Something to, um. Influence the way you...come across? Anything I can." He stops, debating whether to say the next part knowing it'll make him sound like a loser, but the part of him that really wants people to like him wins out, and he deflates. "Anything I can fix, maybe?"

Hank's shoulders sag. "I mean, it's not exactly you, or anything."

Connor digests that. "Anything I can't fix?" he jokes weakly at Hank's back.

He sags even further, hunched over the doorknob. Finally, he turns back around to face Connor. "Look, it's just some of my own bullshit. Shouldn't have pushed it on you."

"Maybe talking about it would help a little, then," Connor offers, Hank watching him with an odd, kind of hopeless look in his eyes. Connor tries to make his face look as inviting and nonthreatening as possible, though he's not entirely certain if he's succeeding. Niles always said he had resting disinterested face.

"God. You mind if I sit down, then? My back is fucked. Don't have the benefits of young age like you do." 

Connor is pleased he's talking, pats the blanket and moves his legs out of the way, but still raises an eyebrow at him. "I've had lower back pain since I was eleven, and I've been lying down for two months straight. Also, in case you missed the memo, I'm thirty—" 

"Thirty years old, yeah, yeah. Got that when you told me to shove that information up my ass."

They share an embarrassed silence, neither looking at each other, then Hank coughs and sits down at the very edge of the bed. 

"So, uh," he says abruptly, "You know how I recommended that doctor?"

"Dr. Manfred? Yes." He's about to add that he had scheduled an appointment with him, but hadn't managed to get in until two months out, but now doesn't seem like the right time to sync calendars.

"He's the one who ultimately finally got anybody to take a hard look at my kid." Connor's vision is limited in this position, but he can see Hank's clenched fists, his downcast eyes. "Everybody kept ping-ponging him around because they didn't know what was going on. All the nonspecific symptoms, you know? Nausea, low-grade fever, fatigue." Hank exhales shakily, and his clenched fists go white at the knuckles. "Nonspecific enough that CyberLife's new medical AI didn't flag it for anything more than routine referrals." 

...Oh. Well. Okay. So not him, exactly. His old company. The derision from earlier makes sense, now.

"We finally switched to Dr. Manfred, and he was great. Ordered a bunch of blood work right away, overrode the system to get priority on everything. And when one of the tests he did came back, he told us we needed to make an appointment with oncology right away, and we did, and." Hank's mouth twists. "Well, they did more testing after that, but it had been this thing, myelodisplastic syndrome, usually doesn't happen to folks under seventy so they hadn't really been checking, and it had already progressed to acute myeloid leukemia by the time they figured any of this out, and. Early detection saves lives, right?" He laughs, and the sound is hollow and ragged. "Late detection can destroy 'em. He had, uh. Six weeks, after that. Not much they could do."

Connor feels the sudden urge to reach over and pat Hank's hand, but they really don't know each other well enough for that. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. 

Hank nods into his lap. "Yeah. Well. Anyway, like I said, it's my own bullshit. I saw you had worked at CyberLife and, uh. Yeah. So I'm sorry about that."

Connor slides his fingers against one another in the ensuing silence. Eventually, he says, "I can't give any specific details without violating my NDA, but CyberLife definitely has its problems. Executives not listening to the coders about needing extra time. Shipping out on accelerated schedules when there are way too many high-priority issues left unresolved. I knew that before I started working there." 

Hank's hands move, then, to press against his knees, like he's anchoring himself to the ground to keep from running. Punching Connor, maybe. "And you still worked there?" 

"I couldn't really work anywhere else. Amanda..." Connor shakes his head, leaning it against the headboard of his bed. "She had a very clear plan for me. Has. I got locked into it long before I even thought to protest." 

_I got you this game. It'll teach you how to do work like I do._

_If you're nervous about going out with these acquaintances of yours, you know you can always stay in and work on this coding project you've been chipping away at for far too long._

_Do you really think you'll get into the college you need with an A minus? I expected better of you. You're grounded while you redo all of your subpar assignments, and you'll get the teacher to let you turn them in. Beg, if you have to._

_Let me see that email. You got in? I'm proud of you. But then, we always knew you'd excel._  

A bygone conclusion. Amanda didn't leave things to chance, and she never left Connor to chance. She knew he wouldn't disobey, especially not after everything with Niles. And anyway, back then, he really did want to make her happy. Back then he thought he could. 

And then by the time he realized everything she was doing, he was two years into grad school in a highly specialized field that he didn't even really enjoy, and he owed her a shitload of money for grad school, and that was all money he couldn't spend on transitioning. Because she wouldn't pay for it, obviously. Didn't 'believe' in it, _you're still welcome home and I'll call you by that name if you insist on it but I'm sure as hell not going to pay an exorbitant amount of money just because you've convinced yourself—_

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes, trying to calm himself down. 

Hank is scoffing. "You worked there because your mom had a _plan?_ And what, you just—went with it? Even though you knew CyberLife was shitty."

"Yeah, I just went with it," Connor says, too tired and distracted to muster indignation.

"So you're a coward."

Connor opens his eyes to look at Hank. "Yes. Yes, I am. I am absolutely a coward. I haven't fought against Amanda, and maybe I have my reasons for that, but yeah. Coward. Do you have any other _concerns_ to bring up with me, Mr. Anderson?" His eyes are flinty now; apparently he managed to round up some indignation after all. Hank doesn't know. Hank doesn't know what Amanda is like. 

Hank scratches at his beard without meeting his eyes, then blows out air through his teeth. "Okay, God, I fucked up that apology too. Sorry for calling you a coward, we all got shit and yours ain't any of my business. Sorry. You were right when you said I was a dick." 

Connor considers that apology. "Well, all right. As long as you're aware."

Hank snorts at that, surprised, and his eyes actually light up a bit for a second. Almost like a smile, but not quite. "I can't get a handle on you, kid—" Connor stares at him levelly. "Thirty-year-old ancient old man, practically a mummy, two feet and one hand in the grave, don't look at me like that. God almighty, it's a vocal tic, not a condemnation—" His gaze wanders, and Connor can see the moment when he actually properly registers the detective posters everywhere, and when he chokes on air. "Uh."

"Look, they're not as, um. Bloody. As they look there." Hank continues to look gobsmacked, except there's a hint of red raising up his neck. "Well. Okay, they are." Connor checks to see which one Hank is stuck on; it's from that series about detective work in the future, where the main character is one of the few left in the city who doesn't rely entirely on technology. "That one's really good, actually. One of my favorites when I was in college. I got that poster from this little bookstore I used to go to all the time, they were just going to get rid of it so—"

"Yup," Hank croaks out. "Yeah, uh. I'm familiar."

Connor brightens, former bad mood forgotten. "Really?!"

"Like. Tangentially."

"Oh." Connor sinks back down into the pillows. "Well. I really enjoyed the series. Author's been on indefinite hiatus; I hope he's doing well."

"Mm," Hank responds eloquently, standing up off the bed. "Uh. Right. So I'm gonna—" He jerks his thumb at the door. 

"Yeah, of course," Connor says, largely disinterested without the draw of detective conversation or apologies or tragic backstories. Which reminds him. "Oh, real quick. I made an appointment with Dr. Manfred. Soonest he can get me in is in about two months. Want me to give you the date for your calendar?"

"Two months?" Hank says, frowning. "No, I—no, that's just fuckin' ridiculous. I should still have his cell number. I'll call and ask him if there's no way he can't squeeze you in between some other appointment." 

"Oh." That's surprisingly thoughtful. "Well, thank you, Hank. I appreciate that." He tries for a smile, and is equally surprised to find it genuine. "And—thank you for telling me. About everything. You didn't need to bare so much of yourself to help me understand, but I'm glad you felt comfortable doing so. And I'm sorry. What happened to your son, it shouldn't have happened."

Hank shifts his weight, then says, "Yeah. Really shouldn't have." 

He leaves then, but Connor doesn't feel as bad knowing he's out there as he did before. And later, when it's time for lunch and Connor goes out to see if there's still bread for sandwich ingredients, Hank's there with a bowl of boiling fettuccine and a saucepan bubbling away on the side. And when it's finished, he takes the bowl to the couch and eats with Connor there. 

"Dumb to go outside to do it when it's starting to get so chilly," he says by way of excuse. They both ignore that it's exactly what he had done yesterday.  

Hank isn't scheduled for weekends, because he doesn't have doctor's appointments scheduled for weekends and he has enough basic ingredients to manage some microwave-type meals for two days at least. It's quieter without him around. No quiet lull of television, no vacuum, no muffled swearing when he (Connor thinks, anyway) bumps his toe into the coffee table. It's only been three days, not nearly enough time for Connor to get used to the sound being there, but he does miss it. Further evidence of how pathetically lonely he is, he supposes. 

Niles texts him where he's able. The weekends are their busiest time, though Niles is pretty much always busy. It's part that he's understaffed and a lot that he's a huge control freak and doesn't like letting his other employees do something when he thinks he could do it better. Niles may have directly contradicted Amanda's vision for them by buying that dying little bookstore instead of going into tech or big business or whatever else, but her legacy lives on in him with how he's always deeply unsatisfied with his own work, never enough, never enough hours in the day, never good enough unless he's working all the time and even then—

They don't talk too much about what it's done to them. Connor isn't sure either of them are ready for that, or if they ever will be. Emotional expression is not either of their specialties. But they both know, and they don't need to bring up the reason to be aware of why Connor is never surprised when Niles is running on only two hours of sleep per day, just tells him to make sure he's still eating and that his chocolate stash hasn't run out yet, or why Niles doesn't ask about the moods where Connor texts him incessantly without expecting a reply, just spouting out whatever nonsense he can think of, just talking for want of something to do. They both know what that is. 

Amanda calls on Sunday. When he was working she called less, or he could claim he was tired and not pick up. Now he doesn't have much of an excuse. The calls are perfunctory at best; she asks for updates on his condition, scoffs at his doctors if there aren't any updates to be had. She asks if he's considered setting up a website to do freelance coding from home. "Might as well get some use out of all this, at least," she says, and he drops the phone down to his lap so she won't hear his deep breath, trying to calm himself down, trying to tell himself he is not only his utility. It doesn't work as well as he wishes it would, but then, he knew that when he tried. 

She hangs up with her usual admonition: to make sure he still has his goals in sight. Even with this 'setback', if he gets back to work soon enough it doesn't have to disrupt his plans too much, she tells him. He wonders occasionally if that's intended to be reassuring, if she really and truly thinks that any of these plans have anything to do with him. He never asks her, though.

He settles into sleep that night and thinks, before drifting off, that it'll be nice to have Hank back on Monday. Now that they've settled things a little bit, he's at least—someone. Someone who's here, instead of a voice from a speaker or text on a screen. Someone with whom he has nothing in common, admittedly, and who thinks he's a coward and a corporate shill, but. Also someone who'd call a doctor personally to try to help him, and who told him about his son to prove he didn't hate him. 

A good someone, he decides, and falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am again falling back on what i know re: cole; i had mds that progressed to aml as a kid, though i was lucky in that they found it pretty early on before it progressed. i am fudging details a bit here because any doctor who did a blood test should've raised their eyebrows at the kind of white blood cell counts you'd see with mds (it only took them as long to get me in the hospital as it did bc one of my doctors didn't do a blood test for a few months, and then after i was in there it only took them about a month to get a proper diagnosis)...and the idea that medicine gets more fucked up with time is p bleak lol. but it's a stooooory it's fiiiiiction it's fiiiiine
> 
> i'm sorry for making amanda into such a bad guy here, she...probably doesn't really deserve this? it's modeled off a couple different things including some stuff from my own life, and she does have sort of a reason and we'll get into that later, but. not great to insist your kids work all the time. sorry amanda!

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! if you wanna swing by my tumblr to talk about these boys or for anything else, i'm at [anuninterestingperson](http://anuninterestingperson.tumblr.com) there. i'm also on twitter at [@boringbibs](https://twitter.com/boringbibs)!


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